


La Persistencia de la Memoria

by We_live_in_a_Society



Series: The Surrealities [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Incest, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Poetry, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Parent/Child Incest, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Tension, Smut, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Wordcount: Under 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society
Summary: Sometimes it is funny how one thing can completely change everything.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Surrealities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660720
Kudos: 8





	La Persistencia de la Memoria

Aunt Rosmertha used to say that females are the creations of Satan, full of sin, and meant to be reprobated, something that Beverly was never able to fully understand as a child, but it has surely changed when she reached the puberty.

If someone asked her to describe puberty in one word, in her case, she would say ‘bizarre’, or even simpler – ‘lustful’. Yes, puberty is definitely lustful, she thinks as the water is running down her back, leaving traces of foam on its way, the foam that is just about to rinse.

Who is she even trying to fool? Of course she has noticed how handsome Richard is. She sees the way women look at him, the way he can easily attract them. Although it does not change the fact that in most of those cases, they will not make the first move, in his case it takes very little effort to succeed, since usually just a mere proposition is enough for him to get what he wants.

And she hates it, even though she knows he is a man who has his own needs, but she simply cannot stand the thought that when she is out, he may bring a woman here and fuck her in the living room or wherever else.

But the truth is that no matter what he performs with them, he has been in love with one and only woman for last nineteen years.

And this woman is not her.

And she hates it.

On the top of that she knows he is waiting for her, and on the top of that top he knows that she knows that he knows. Twisted shit, as her friend Tammy might say, but Tammy is a slut, another fucking whore who pays her visits just in hope to fuck Richard.

F U C K R I C H A R D

Painted in Tammy’s blood on the shower glass door, her hand helplessly tossed over toilet seat threating to dive into the filthy water.

F U C K R I C H A R D

Her mind screams. It screams in vain, so loudly that she almost collapses on the floor. Although she does not fall, the dull thud causes her to cautiously slide on the wet, pearly surface. She whimpers almost like a wounded animal, her vision blank, her body numb, and then it all snaps, the inability is gone, and so she gets up, supporting her weight on the tap, the new idea still fresh in her head.

Oh, she is so going to regret that. 

Or maybe not.

* * *

He watches as the cigarette smoke curls in the air, the shape oddly reminding him of that night in 1967, the Summer of Love, as some people like to call it, the most memorable experience he ever had, the night when he turned from a lost puppy boy to a rugged man. 

He remembers the campfire, the way that warm fire created reflections on her face and how it emphasized the small mark on her top lip. She laughed at his jokes, her head lulling slightly to the side, mind drowsy because of the joint they had just finished.

He shivers at the thought, then smiles to himself as he rakes his fingers through longish hair, slicking them back.

Then she was gone, all too soon and he never got enough of her but he doesn’t think he would ever be able to. He was lucky to spend those two years with her anyway, and although she is gone now, she has not left him all to himself.

Actually she left a pretty significant, yet troublemaking trace who is probably in the middle of taking a shower upstairs as he is smoking alone in the dark room, the habit he picked up after Debbie’s death and still, after seventeen years, cannot fully get rid of.

Or maybe he does not want to.

Maybe it just helps him to recreate this memory in his head over and over again, the anchor that keeps him connected to the reality, that helps him not to lose his mind completely.

Especially while Bevy is taking a shower upstairs.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, a single word that holds all his pent-up frustrations, both sexual and emotional. Probably mostly sexual in this case, but it actually depends on how he perceives it at the certain moment.

And yet there remains a question he still is not able to answer.

Does he love Bevy? Probably in his own twisted way, he does, but what does it even matter if his love will cause her more harm the benefits? 

Why do we crave for things we cannot have?

Despite his slightly shaken-up state, he waits for her patiently, tapping his cigarette, smoked almost to the filter, on the ashtray to get rid of the excess dust that may leave stains on the sofa, as if it all matters at the end.

“I told you not to smoke in the room,” she speaks, her voice reaches his ears before he can see her. 

“And I told you to stop lurking in the shadows,” he rasps, settling the cigarette aside. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day.”

“Seems like we can’t live up to our expectations, can we?” She teases, her head tipped to the side slightly. 

As she speaks, he steals a glance at her figure and frowns, emphasizing those two thin lines between his eyebrows. She has tied her hair in a messy bun, and Debbie never did that.

“I like when you have your hair down.”

“You like many things,” she rolls her eyes, but lets her hair down anyway, damp curls spilling down her back like a curtain.

She knows he has been thinking about her again, and the thought alone makes her sick. She hates her deep down, but will never admit it to herself. She hates that he loves Deborah more than he loves her. She hates that when he looks at her, he sees Deborah. She hates that she has to pretend it does not hurt to be called Deborah sometimes, even if by mistake.

And how she hates Deborah herself.

But the truth is that she just wants to please him.

She flops down on the sofa, sitting cross-legged beside him, his own T-shirt riding up her thighs, exposing the crescent-shaped scar that marks her skin there.

His hands itch to touch her. What if he just ran his hand up her thigh? How would she respond to the caress? Would she shiver, or would she grasp his hand and-

“You know I’m not her, right?” She murmurs faintly, her voice rocking through the silence like his grandma’s wooden chair, over and over, tunes fading within the split second, although it seems like an eternity for him.

“Don’t-“

“Of course,” she rolls her eyes, getting up from a coach, his hands trying to grasp her, but miss her by mere inches, as she ducks to the side. 

“I’m sorry I forgot how much you enjoy cutting this off anytime I start over. You know what? I don’t think you’ve ever loved me as Beverly. I think the only person you consider me to be is Deborah! Tell me why you love her so much. Tell me what she had that I don’t have!” 

In a fit of anger, she pushes him surprisingly vigorously considering the fact she is almost a head shorter than him and a way weaker.

“C’mon, tell me!” She yells, her voice cracking at the end, and suddenly, completely out of blue, she slaps him hard across his face, causing his glasses to skew on his nose.

His eyes widen in shock, cheek stinging as he raises his hand to touch it, quickly fixing his glasses as he goes. 

She knows perfectly that she has overstepped her boundaries by this point, that slapping him is the least reasonable thing she could do, and he will probably punish her for that in his favorite way possible, by giving her a silent treatment, but it is too late to withdraw anyway.

“Answer me!” She practically cries out, trying to hit him again, but this time he grasps her by the wrist, pushing her firmly until her back hits the wall with a little bit too much force.

“You want me to treat you like an adult? Then fucking act like one,” he hisses through gritted teeth, looking at her intently for a few seconds, the vein on his forehead visibly poking, and again, she does the least reasonable thing she could possibly do under these circumstances.

She kisses him.

She kisses him in the feat of anger, of passion, biting and bruising, until she gasps for breath, and yet he does not respond, star-struck by the whole act.

She catches him out of the guard completely, and for a moment he thinks that he is in some sort of weird hellish heaven where his daughter, the object of his uncontrollable lust for almost two years, finally fulfills his darkest desires.

He knows that he should stop, that he should gently turn her down, but he cannot, he cannot, and it has been too long since he felt something, and since everyone deserves at least a little bit of relief from time to time… he kisses her back. He kisses her back, claiming her lips possessively, as he pushes her dainty body up against the wall, his newfound vigor making her mind dizzy and body light.

He is very much aware of the fact that he has to break away, even if only for breath, but he knows neither of them will be able to carry on afterwards, and yet he does it either way.  
She looks into his eyes, usually cold and calm, but not this time. This time his gaze is hot, almost unbearable, and she has to fight the urge to look away, as he eyes her almost as if he was a predator and she was his prey.

And his lips, they are so deliciously swollen which surely does not get past her attention, as she forces herself not to touch them, since he does not look like a man who would enjoy this particular caress.

Suddenly something within him snaps, and he lets her go abruptly, but she does not even bother to check how much he has bruised her wrists. Instead she watches him leave the room, without a single word, angry footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. 

The next sound that pricks her ears is the rapid slam of his bedroom door, her body sliding down to the floor limply, back supported by the wall. 

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

The sound of bedroom door slamming shut vibrates in the air, breaking the peacefulness of the night like an abrupt hurricane, a hurricane that you know might come one day, like a catastrophe that has been hanging over you for such a long time that you even forget it has ever existed at all.

In his case the hurricane caries one name only – Beverly.

He cannot recall if he has ever been this shaken-up after Debbie’s death, and for a split second he thinks that the sexual aspect of the frustration makes it even worse, but he quickly pushes it away. Nothing marked him more than Debbie’s death.

Before his mind manages to come up with anything else, he pushes the door to his adjoining bathroom, switching on the fluorescent light as he goes,

(why did he even picked up this color?)

and eyes himself in the mirror. First his gaze lands on the angry red handprint that marks his cheek, hissing as his fingers slip past it.

Fuck, she really hit him hard.

Then he flicks his tongue over his still swollen lips, secretly wondering if her taste is still present there, gasping when indeed, he discovers a hint of her cherry-flavored chapstick upon them.

Well, if he was not hard before, he certainly is now.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, raking his fingers through his messed up hair, another one of his nervous habits that he has developed over the years. 

Oh, how he would use a drink right now.

* * *

The first thing she experiences in the morning is a soft, yet disturbing. ticklish-like feeling that slowly brings her back to senses, sunlight caressing her freckled skin. She yawns and stretches her limbs, then drowsily gets up from the coach, making her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee that Richard probably left for her on the countertop. She is practically sure that he has gone out somewhere and will not be back until late, which is a habit of his, avoiding her after every argument that is linked with Deborah, until she cannot take it and practically begs him for forgiveness. 

But not this time, she thinks as she examines the bruised wrists.

This time the tables have turned.

* * *

She giggles again in that girlish way he especially hates, probably because she thinks that if she laughs at all of his jokes, she will get laid properly, by a man, not a boy. He is presumably twice her age anyway, she does not look like she is old enough to buy her own drinks or even go to college. 

As if it all matters at the end…

Also, Bevy never laughs in such a silly way, but at the moment he is too drunk to even care. Partly he suspects that he is getting too old for this, but he is a way more than casually tipsy and the only thing that is occupying his mind is to just fuck this oh-so-willing blonde and hope not to catch any STDs. 

As if it all matters at the end…

He looks her up again, this time paying less attention to the acne scars on her cleavage and now he notices she could certainly lose five or seven pounds. Well, at least her tits are nice, or maybe it is just the push up bra, maybe they will turn out to be saggy in the end.

Oh how he wishes he could be with Bevy instead.

“How about we go to your place?” She purrs, trying to sound seductively, but the only response she gets from him is a barked-out laugh, clearly not the sign of a long pent-up desire.

“No Marla-”

“Lesley.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your name, sweetheart,” he huffs, clearly becoming annoyed with the girl and her needy acts. “If you want a man to fuck you that bad, we can pay a visit to the nearby toilet, or you can go back to your parents, the choice is yours.”

“I-” she stutters, out of words before she even starts.

“Listen, I don’t care about your needy, winey bullshit-”

(I only care about Bevy’s needy, winey bullshit.)

“You fucking prick!” She cries, the squeaky sound attracting attention of a few people sitting in a bar. Before he gets a chance to respond, she throws her drink in his face, eliciting a gasp of shock from him.

“Fucking bitch,” he mutters under his breath, before he gulps the rest of his whiskey, quickly strolling out of the pub and back home.

Back to Bevy.

* * *

She almost falls from the coach when the front door abruptly slams shut, the sound that is soon followed by heavy, draggy footsteps that creep closer and closer to the living room, until she sees him, leaning by the doorway, probably because he is unable to stand on his own, hair tousled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, looking directly at her until she cannot take it anymore.

“Richard?” She almost whispers, faintly, cautiously, since she has no idea what his next move might be, especially now.

“C’mere,” he murmurs groggily, offering his free hand for her, but she knows it is not the best idea to trust his sense of balance under these circumstances.

“What?” She asked, her voice coming out as surprisingly scared and quiet.

“I said c’mere,” he growls, clearly close to losing that little of patience, that little of self-control he still maintains, which is probably the last thing she wants to experience right now.

“How much have you drunk?” She asks, as she crosses the room until she stands face to face with him, looking up into his eyes. 

“I’m not drunk,” he refuses, shaking his head and almost losing his poor balance in process, but she manages to somehow grasp his forearms, hoping that it will be enough to keep him upright, since she knows there are fat chances she would be able to lift him from the floor. 

“How about you lay down then, huh?” She raises her eyebrows, deciding not to argue with him on this point and at the same time hoping to convince him, since babysitting Richard is the last things she is in the mood for performing.

“Only if you lay down with me,” he says seemingly out of nowhere, and yet it should not surprise her, since his current state of intoxication can be only described as ‘fucking wasted’.

“Fine,” she agrees after a few seconds, wanting to avoid any possible discussions at this point. Plus she will leave him there all to himself anyway, so what is the problem?

Who is she even trying to fool? 

However and despite anything she mentioned before, she gently grasps his hand, leading him to his bedroom, where she tells him to get ready for bed, well at least do as much as he is capable of, leaving him to complete those bunch of tasks in the bathroom.

Within those four minutes, she hears a few wizzes, quieter clatters joined by a few angry ‘fucks’, and a particular loud crash followed by a long and rather interesting string of curses, until finally, he comes out of the bathroom dressed only in his underwear.

Although he always sleeps like this, without any T-shirt or pants, her breath hitches as soon as she sees him like this, the lack of clothing certainly does not leave much to the imagination, her gaze raking over the newly exposed skin, two inked ravens marking the flesh just below his left collarbone. She often dwells on the story held by the tattoo.  
Meanwhile she hears her heart thumping inside her ears, stomach doing somersaults, eyes closing for a second which is supposed to help her relax, but instead Richard choses that moment to pull her with him to the bed, almost making her scream as his long fingers wrap around her forearm.

In all honesty, the fact that he remains almost speechless makes her anxious, it seems as if he is planning something and just waits until the right moment comes.

Finally, as soon as they get under the covers, he speaks, the raspiness of his voice oddly soothing in her notion as it gently rakes through the silence.

“I’m sorry baby,” he mutters, the pet name rolling out of his tongue surprisingly smoothly. “I-I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday. It was highly inappropriate and I’m so sorry… I-”

Jesus, he really is drunk.

Which may actually be an amazing opportunity to push Richard to perform something both of them would like, which, again, is just another lie.

Why does she keep lying to herself?

Living up to her expectations, she decides to drag this a little further, to play a little game, to see where this game may lead them.

And oh, has she always loved games.

“It’s fine,” she lies, hesitating for a moment before adding the rest of a sentence. “I did like it though.”

“I know you did,” he purrs, pulling her a little bit closer to him with the arm wrapped around her waist. “You made it too obvious, Bevy.”

While he is speaking, breath hot atop the tender skin of her neck, she feels her body heat up, both from the warmth of his body and newfound lust bubbling inside her. His scent hits her nostrils, the strangely appealing mixture of mostly alcohol, cigarettes, his cologne, and sweat that makes her mind dizzy and her insides clench as it brushes her nose teasingly.

He is railing her up on purpose and she loves to be railed up.

“Tell me Bevy,” he whispers, his hand grazing her thigh, the unexpected coolness of his flesh, oddly comforting against her heated skin. “Have you ever been with a man?”

“What?” She asks, her whole body cringing slightly at his question, the barely noticeable flex of her muscles that unfortunately does not seem to get past his attention, as the hand that was previously stroking her thigh, wraps around it in an almost possessive manner.

“Have you, Bevy?”

“If by asking that, you mean if I have ever had sex before, then the answer is no,” she answers properly now, her usual self-confidence back, but the hint of restraint and nervousness still present behind her slightly arrogant exterior.

“What have you done then?” 

Fuck, she should have figured out he will dwell on the subject.

“I’ve only kissed one before, excluding you,” she states as the furious blush dusts her freckled cheeks. “It was a long time ago.”

“Well,” he starts, dragging the monosyllabic word slightly. “How about I show you something fun then?” 

Her breath hitch as soon as he makes the proposition, legs clenching involuntary to relieve the sudden ache that blossoms between her slim thighs. Did he really say that or is she just imagining things? She makes a mental note to just keep it cool and do not freak out.

“Yes, please,” she agrees, absolutely entranced.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the smirk audible in his voice. 

As soon as these words slip past his lips, he pulls the covers down to expose their heated bodies, making her shiver as the cool air embraces the warm skin. He sits up, back supported by the headboard, fumbling with the buckle of his watch for a couple of seconds until it lets lose, lying it on the nightstand afterwards along with his glasses. She has always found it somehow fascinating to watch him complete those mundane tasks, such as shaving or tying a tie.

He gestures for her to sit between his legs, which provides both of them enough space, the essential convenience for her and room for maneuver for him. She settles down, lying her head on his chest, the thumping of his heart audible in her ear, her ginger curls tickling his skin lightly.

Despite his drunken state, he senses her nervousness, the way her body trembles slightly betrays her real emotions visibly enough, and the last feeling he wants her to associate with what he is about to do is fear. Therefore the first action he takes consists of something that may help her relax – a back massage, since it does the trick in most of the cases.   
But for some reason he wants her bare for that.

“Take of your shirt,” he says and he knows it is convincing enough for her to complete the task, the control he holds over her is somehow exciting, and of course he is not mistaken on that one. With trembling hands she pulls the material over her head, her spine arching as she does so, hair spilling down her back like a thick curtain.

Having brushed her hair to the side, he places his hands on her shoulders, fingers digging into her skin slightly as he squeezes the flesh, making her gasp in relief. His movements are pretty much gentle, which she finds kind of surprising since she expected something a little bit different, but under these circumstances she, indeed, prefers the tender massage.

As the time passes, his hands slide more freely over her skin, moving all the way from her shoulders down to her waist, having Beverly squirm on his lap, the teasing touches not enough to ease her. He groans due to the friction her movements cause, and despite the earlier alcohol consumption, he feels himself harden within the tightness of his pants, the material applying uncomfortable pressure to the erection. 

To speed things up, he shifts his right hand to her breast, left arm looping around her waist to keep her from squirming too much, as he gently squeezes the flesh, pinching her nipple afterwards. She squeals as the sensation washes over her, trying to rub her thighs together for friction, but as soon as he notices this, he spreads her legs, using his calves to keep them open.

At the moment he does not like the thought of her pleasuring herself.

Not that he does not like it in general.

“Richard,” she whines urgently, the hot ache between her legs constantly reminding about its existence, and at this point her main focus is to get him to finally touch her in a way she wants to be touched.

As he keeps teasing her breasts, she cannot help but wonder how his touch will feel comparing to her own, probably different but how much? Will it be good or bad different? Will it hurt more than she expects? Will she simply enjoy it? The fact that she is so close to finally find out, only makes her more anxious and more desperate for answers.

“Richard, please,” she whines again, this time grinding against his erection, making him groan deeply, his hand squeezing her breast harshly, the urge to grab onto something too strong to suppress.

“What is it?” He teases, chuckling when she claws onto his forearm in frustration, long nails digging into his skin painfully, but he barely feels it, since the object of his current fascination is deeply beyond this. Right now he is wondering if he could make her cum just by touching her breasts.

“It hurts, please. I-”

Before she gets the chance to finish her plead, his left hand slips between her legs, easily covering up the whole area, fingers gliding over the wet material as he circles her clit. She shudders in his arms, her hips buckling instinctively for more friction, as he keeps stroking the swollen nub, until she whimpers his name in such a needy way that it makes him shiver, desire pooling low in the pit of his stomach.

“How does it feel baby?” He asks, his fingers dipping just below the fabric, brushing her inner thighs as he does so. “Better than when you do it?”

“Better,” she answer, her voice forming a breathy moan. “A way better.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, heady with lust.

Lust for her.

And she is burning.

Everything is burning, and for the first time in her life burning feels so good, almost surreal, as she arches her back, lacing their fingers together, the urge to grab onto something impossible to ignore. 

But she needs more.

And he will not give it to her until she begs him.

“More, please,” she breaths, but instead of obeying, he keeps teasing her through the damp material, and within split second she realizes what is the case here, what is he subconsciously waiting for. “Daddy, please.”

Satisfied with her answer, his hand slips past the waistband of her panties, groaning as the generous amount of wetness coats his fingers immediately, gaining a breathy sigh from her. If he is being honest with himself, he cannot recall if any girl he had since Debbie’s death has ever became this aroused just by such simple actions. 

Maybe it is just because of their virginity.

“Fuck,” he groans, as his fingers reach her fluttering opening, unconsciously checking if she is wet enough “You’re soaked. You really needed this, didn’t you?”

“I did,” she agrees, much to his delight, moaning softly as his finger presses against her entrance, sliding in afterwards.

She gasps for breath as he stretches her, squeezing his free hand tighter, but instead of waiting for her to adjust, he begins to slowly move his finger, soon adding another one.

Maybe it is just because he has grown sick of waiting.

Also, he likes the way she responds to his caress. Her reactions, comparing to others, are very… organic, which he has always found more enjoyable, since he is sick of their artificial moans, exaggerated reactions, he is sick of false women in general.

But who is not?

“Richard…” she whines, her head lulling to the side slightly, hair tickling his chest.

“Bevy…” he mimics her, fingers still moving inside her, making it hard to focus on what he is saying, but still, his voice gets to her perfectly, the way he says her name impossible to ignore, breathlessly, as if he was the one close to coming, not her.

Oh how she wishes it could be this way…

On the top of that, she feels impossibly dirty. 

Actually she has never felt so filthy in her entire life, and never been this wet, certainly not for her own father. If someone told her that she would be engaged in this particular situation with Richard, she would simply laugh, thinking that it is more likely that even Tammy would be here instead of her.

But she is here, not Tammy.

Not Deborah.

She.

While she is gloating over her own happiness, he is able to sense how close she is, the way she is squeezing his fingers is acknowledgeable enough, and all he wants right now is to make her come.

Make Beverly come. 

He shudders when it crosses his mind.

“C’mon baby,” he encourages her, voice low and raspy in her ear, laced with lust. “Cum for Daddy.”

Well, that did it. She cries softly, digging her nails into his hand painfully once more this night, her dainty body shaking in his arms as he coaxes her through the aftershocks, withdrawing his fingers seconds later.

He lets her rest on his chest for a minute or so, something he normally avoids, since he is afraid of creating an emotional bond, but this time he makes an exception for her since it is definitely not the case here. 

As soon as he removes his hand from between her legs, she slides the wet panties down her legs, wanting to avoid the unpleasant humidity, dropping them on the floor afterwards. Despite the slight weakness in her legs, she gets up, but in a matter of seconds he pulls her down to bed, making her squeal, then giggle in that girlish way he normally hates, but it surely does not apply to Bevy.

It seems like many things do not apply to Bevy. 

* * *

She is sitting on a stool, her back turned towards him, facing the wall, staring blankly at the small red spot there.

“Seems like you’ve been doing great recently,” she speaks, her voice bitter, cutting through the silence like a set of knives, poking his ears with their tips. 

“It’s not how you think it is,” he tries, the reasoning poor even in his own perception.

“Then why don’t you tell me how it is?” She asks, turning around on the stool to face him, with a mocking smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, this time revealing the truth, because in all honesty, he has no idea what is he doing and that scares him.

“You’re a broken man Richard.”

“I am,” he laughs bitterly, the sound too harsh for his own ears.

“She is just a teenager, and you only keep hurting her. All she wants is your love, and you can’t even give her this, without associating her with me. And she is a not me. She is not Deborah. She is Beverly. And she loves you more than anyone ever loved you.”

“Doesn’t matter, the damage is done,” he denies, the bitter smirk still marking his face.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she laughs, shaking her head.

And her laugh is the pretties sound he has ever heard.

“But I love her, Debbie. Don’t you see it?” 

“Why do you love her then?” She asks, the question lingering in the air for a couple of seconds, before he gives her the answer.

“Because she’s my daughter.”

This time her laugh is bitter.

“I don’t think you are able to love someone unconditionally. You just love her because she reminds you of me. And nothing else.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been so selfish too.”

“Said the most altruistic person,” she rolls her eyes mockingly.

“Maybe,” he continues, “you shouldn’t have overdosed. And maybe you should take care of Beverly when there was time for that. I think it’s easy for you to judge me. You have no idea what does it mean to suffer, do you?”

“And you? Do you know?” She asks for the last time, her words fading as the bright light swallows her.

She has not changed at all, always leaving him unsettled.

* * *

He stirs underneath the warm covers, sunlight tickling his closed eyelids, forcing him to open them with a groan of disapproval. He sighs, snuggling into a source of warmth in front of him, morning wood painfully reminding of its existence, as he rolls onto his back, waiting until it goes away by itself. It usually does, but the presence of another warm body beside him seems to disturb the process for the tiniest bit.

Well, maybe not the tiniest.

He sighs, as he lights up the cigarette, another nasty habit he has – smoking just after he wakes up, especially when the dull ache drums against his temples. The well-known quiet crack of the lighter is all it takes to fulfill his little desire, the pain seems to abate as soon as the new portion of nicotine licks over his nerves.

Addictions are nasty, the phrase that his mother kept telling him back when he was a child. He wonders what would she say, if she saw him right now with his naked daughter pressed to his side. He snorts at the thought, causing Beverly to twitch in her sleep, but never wake up. He must have worn her out last night, since she is certainly a light sleeper, and normally she would be up as soon as he moved to get the cigarette from the nightstand.

Despite the distraction,

(his carries one name only)

his mind returns to the track opened by his previous thoughts with the misty vision of his mother, the woman he hates more than anyone else in the world. If he was a religious person, he would ask the Devil to bless her repulsive soul.

The point is that he represents everything she hated, everything contrary to her moral values, everything that made her blood boil hot. He will never forget the way her eyes narrowed when she suspected he had lied to her, always disappointed, her expectation never to be fulfilled. When he was younger, he found her utterly dreadful, her figure always towering over him, judging the small boy from her point of view. 

And did she ever was a tall woman.

Everything changed when he reached the puberty, the silent bale not so silent anymore. He became the man of the house, he held the control over his predator, he was the one to be afraid of. That was the time when he understood something, when he learned one of those very important lessons live gives you at some point.

Everything is temporary.

Fame, money, felicity.

And authority.

Authority is temporary too.

One thought leads to another, so at some point his mind switches to the dream he had this night, to the visit Debbie paid him. Deep down he knows she is right, that he should stop before he will have to face the consequences of his actions, but he cannot neglect the second lesson he learned as a child.

Enjoy as it lasts.

Which is exactly what he is going to do.

And what he is going to do is wake her up the way he used to wake Debbie, even though he feels it would be too selfish on his part, and too much for her at one take.

But he has always been a selfish man.

Without giving this a second thought, he sets the cigarette on the ashtray, watching the smoke, unquestionable cause of the greyish yellow color of his bedroom walls, for a split second, before he pulls the covers down, exposing her body to the daylight. This time he savors the chance to view it properly, eyes grazing the curve of her breasts with two eye-poking hard nipples. He brushes the right one absentmindedly with the pad of his index finger, eliciting no reaction from her. He hums in disapproval, then spreads her legs without drawing this any further, not intending to tease her this time.

At least not now.

He spreads her lips, tracing the slit with his thumb, smirking wickedly at the slight twitch of her legs. 

Still wet. He could get used to that.

Then he hovers over her, giving her face one last look, eyelids closed, hair spilled over the pillow, before he resumes. At the beginning he is gentle, lips barely touching her, skimming past the hood of her clit, more like a suggestion than a stroke. The next one seems more demanding though, actually intending to wake her up this time, but she just flinches again, pushing her hips up a little bit this time, tapping the tip of his nose in process, but he does not bother to wipe it. It will not make any difference, considering what he is about to do.

Also he likes the way she tastes. More zesty and tart than sweet – a personal preference of his. It wakes up something within him, something carnal and long forgotten, something he felt only with-

Her rapid gasp cuts him off.

“So you’re up now?” He teases, smirking at her puzzled expression. “Well, that’s very good, good for you actually.”

“What are you doing?” She asks, propping herself on the elbows to get a better view of him.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” 

“I don’t know,” she sighs, nibbling on her lip to suppress a smile. “But whatever it is, you can keep going.”

“If you insist,” he raises his left eyebrow, the teasing smirk still playing upon his lips, but he doesn’t do anything.

However, this time she decides to play along.

After flashing him one last glance, she slips her hand between her already spread legs, swatting his face lightly as she goes, much to his surprise. She sighs when her fingers come across the wetness, just merely stroking her clit, waiting until he pushes her hand away and resumes, but he surprises her with a sharp nip on her inner thigh that makes her squeal, then stop.

“Don’t be bratty,” he admonishes. “Or else you won’t get anything, is that clear?”

“It is,” she rolls her eyes, lying her head on the pillow, eyes locked with the celling.

“You have no idea how hard it makes me, knowing that I’m the first man who’s ever done this to you,” he admits, brushing the crease where her hip meet her thigh, smirking at the slight twitch of the muscle.

“What?” She asks, pretty sure she has misheard him, but he simply ignores her question.

Instead he sucks on her clit, gently, not wanting to overwhelm her at the very beginning. She gasps sharply, pushing her hips up to his face, the juices smearing on his chin, but again, he does not bother to wipe it, since it is not like he minds it at the certain moment.

He watches with carnal fascination how she reacts to the caress, how her chest rises in time with the shallow breaths, how her hands twist in the sheets, how she bucks her hips, unconsciously trying to guide him where she needs it the most. She is indeed a slight for sore eyes.

Or maybe just his eyes.

Never in her entire life, not even yesterday, she has been so overwhelmed, balancing over edge, but still in the need for a push. She wants to speak, she even wants to beg him, but she cannot, her desperate plead getting stuck in her throat, the lump impossible to swallow. She can only hope he understands.

And he does, actually.

He smoothly pushes her over the edge, not intending to tease her this time, just as said. He smirks unwittingly at her surprised moan, her thighs squeezing his head in between them, caught in the heat of the moment. Not that he minds though. He coaxes her though the process with gentle licks until she tugs his head back, too sensitive to continue, and he obeys, not intending to turn the experience into something painful for her.

He leaves her unbothered for a moment, giving her the opportunity to catch her breath, raising from the crouching position to take his previous spot beside her. He wipes the slickness covering the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand, licking the rest from his lips, humming pleasantly. It has been a while since he enjoyed it that much.

Soon she rolls onto her side in search for more physical contact, but hisses as soon as her thighs rub together, raw because of his stubble.

“Richard?”

“Huh?”

“You should have shaved.”

* * *

Demons of the past.

They have been hunting him for quite a while now. He has been restless, reality has been warped, lost and all alone, scattered over space. Of course he could talk to someone, ask for advice, but deep down he knows he has to fight the adversity all by himself, otherwise it will not come out as efficient enough.

And the demons will haunt him again.

Because they always do, no matter how far he pushes them.

Without escaping from the bane for once, he starts the motorcycle with the soft click that seems to be loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood, including Beverly unfortunately. No, it is impossible, don’t be ridiculous. Also he will be back before she wakes up, if everything lines up with the plan.

And it rarely does when it comes to him.

Despite his worries, he quickly drives off the porch, knocking off one of the randomly placed flowerpots in process, ceramics cracks and the soil scatters over the pavement.

The first ride they had together was quite adventurous. They were young and irresponsible, but mostly they were just having fun, wicked and sinful fun, evading past the cars, racing with the wind. She screamed for him to slow down, an essential part of the play, but the truth is that she expected right the opposite which both of them knew. That was probably both the first and the last time when he was happy in his entire life, like truly joyful, no expectations, no restrictions, pure adrenaline seemed to substitute the blood in his veins.

How he misses that day.

He would give anything to experience that ride one more time, he would give anything to experience what the ride lead to. But it is all gone now, gone with the wind that blew his hair that day, gone with her laugh.

Gone with her death.

Despite those eighteen years that have passed since that day, he still remembers the way perfectly as it someone branded it with incandescent rod on the inside of his skull, so he could look at it every day, nonstop, until he loses his mind.

Maybe the damage is already done.

He turns on the almost forgotten path that leads to the woods, watching how the sunlight impales through the leaves, so similar yet so different than on that one summer day, but it is neither good nor bad, just different, because the times are changing.

And most importantly, he is changing along.

For the first time in his entire life he realizes, or more accurately – it hits him like a train, that it is okay to change, because change is the part of our lives. It may refer to self-development, the difference in our surroundings, or the difference in our perception. Either way, it leans neither to good nor bad.

And he cannot grieve all his life, now can he?

“Where are you Deborah?” he speaks to the trees, the words get swallowed by the woods, carried by the wind, somewhere far, far away. “I missed your bitter presence oh so terribly, and here I am. Your broken man has arrived to our humble especially per your request. Aren’t you happy?”

“If you think it justifies what you’ve done, you’re terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong,” she answers from behind him, but he does not turn to face her this time, because the last thing he wants is to look into the eyes belonging to the cause of his eternal damnation. He cannot stand her endless accusations, her partial reasoning, her flawless features, flawless personality which used to be far from that back then.

“Funny you should say that,” he snorts, “you fucking miserable junkie. I don’t remember you being so saint back in the days, well do I?”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite Richard.”

“Ouch,” he mocks. “That hurts. But it happens that I can’t disagree on that one, now can I?”

“You tell me,” she raises her left eyebrow challengingly, even though he cannot see it.

“Oh I certainly do,” he smirks, starring into the circle of charred soil. Seems like people still light campfires here. “I feel like you’re the only person with whom I can be completely honest.”

“Is it a compliment?”

“Take it however you want,” he shrugs, before resuming. “But still, you have to know one more thing. I don’t care about your opinion on this one anymore. I don’t need a guardian angel or something, since I’m capable of making terrible, life-wrecking choices on my own, thank you. Also, this is the last time we meet. I don’t want to see you ever again, am I making myself clear?”

“It won’t work out Richard, and both of us are pretty much aware of that, I think. But I can dance to your tune for now,” she shrugs casually. “How does it work for you?”

“It works for me perfectly,” he grins into the distance. “Glad we came to a mutual understanding, don’t we?”

“Take it however you want.”

* * *

“Fuck,” she curses under her breath, her body sliding limply down the shower wall. “Seriously?”

It seems like it is indeed, seriously. But right now?

Nature is a bitch, the bitchest bitch of all the bitches.

“Fuck,” she swears again, but this time she gets up from the floor, turning of the faucet as she goes.

It cannot be worse, now can it?

The truth is that it can always be worse, but she would rather forget the truth for now.

Forgetting has always seemed like a reasonable thing to do.

However, the blood stain on the bathroom floor pries her away from those thoughts, and she just sighs, combing her fingers through the damp strands. 

Sometimes it is funny how one thing can completely change everything.

* * *

Before his arrival, she had some time to clean up the bathroom, deal with her little problem, and even pace nervously through the living room. Things could not have been better.

But when the door opens, she is there immediately, standing awkwardly in the hall, avoiding his glare like a guilty puppy. 

“How was the ride?” She asks, still staring blankly at the wall. She knows she should be more straightforward with him, since he will not mock her for sure, but sometimes the problem lies within us, not other people.

“What kind of question is this?” He asks, the tone of his voice thwarting her attempts to appear as if everything was fine. “Don’t fuck with me, Bevy. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“The things is,” she starts, her eyes still occupied with the dark stain on the wall. “I’m on my period, which means we can’t-”

“No, it doesn’t,” he denies, the smile audible in his voice, causally hanging his jacket on the peg by the door. “It doesn’t necessary mean we can’t have sex. Of course it’s up to you, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, we can wait. Remember, everything is about you tonight, and I have no intentions in making you feel uncomfortable.”

“I know,” she smiles briefly, this time with her eyes focused on his. “And I want to. I mean… it’s fine. I’m up to it.”

“Good,” he murmurs, offering his hand for her, the coolness of it creating a nice contrast to her heated skin. “Let’s go then.”

She blindly lets him lead her up the stairs all the way to his bathroom, closing the door afterwards, the soft click vibrating in the air, tickling her nerves.

In all honesty, she has not felt this nervous kind of excitement in her entire life, not that the feeling is completely foreign to her, but the level of it is. Plus the whole situation is still beyond her reasoning, and it will probably stay this way for the few following days, even after the main event.

“You know,” he breaks her reverie, as his fingers slowly work their way to unbutton the shirt, just to carelessly toss it aside afterwards. “I heard somewhere that sex is good for cramps.”

“Oh you did?” she smiles, immediately noticing how nicely the dim lightning frames his features, as soon as she pries her gaze from the inked ravens on his chest.

He hums in agreement as he settles his glasses along with the watch on the shelf, quickly getting rid of the rest of his clothes, snorting as he eyes the perplexed girl in front of him. He is just about to nudge her, but the sound he makes breaks the spell and she takes off her T-shirt, panties following right after.

“I will set up the water, okay?” He offers, turning around to give her a little bit of privacy. “Don’t look so scared, you will love it, trust me.”

“I trust you,” she assures, making a quick works of throwing the tampon to the bin. “It’s just… I don’t know… the stress, I guess.”

“You will be just fine, I promise.”

“I have your word then.”

“You have my word then,” he smirks, gently pulling her under the stream, carefully, not to let her trip on the wet tiles.

She moans softly as the pleasantly warm water cascades down her back, leaning forward as the pair of well-known arms wrap around her waist, hers enlacing around his neck. He uses that as an opportunity to lift her and push her up against the wall for support, making her squeal, then giggle in that girlish way he has grown to love.

The blood feels hot on his length, hot to the point when he can barely concentrate on anything else, but he knows he has to focus, otherwise he will hurt her.

“Fuck,” he groans into her shoulder, hip bucking a few times in search of just a tiny bit of relief, making her shiver as it grazes her clit teasingly.

Sweet, sweet torture.

His damnation.

Here he stands, about to get exactly what he has been wanting for so long, and he cannot waste more time, he will not waste more time. And so, living up to his cravings, his wanting, his desperate temptations, he kisses her, already slipping his fingers between her legs and inside, this time too needy to tease her. And she is so fucking wet, maybe because of the blood but still, he missed that kind of carnal want, the one possessed by Deborah only.

She moans into his mouth, unconsciously rocking her hips in time with his movements to the point when he is barely able to hold her up. Despite all of this, he does not stop her, since the only thing he wants more than he wants to fuck her is for her is to enjoy every single action he is about to perform.

She scratches down his shoulder blades, the urge to grip something appears to be stronger when he teases that one particularly tender spot inside, making her eyes close again. She savors the feeling as long as it lasts, but it is all too soon when he stops, removing the fingers to grip her thigh again for the better leverage.

Honestly, she feels like it would be stupid to ask him how much it will hurt. Probably it depends on the tolerance for pain, but also he is male, he will not be able to describe it to her for obvious reasons, but still she can barely fight the burning need to ask.

“You want me to go slow?” He murmurs, hot breath tickling her ear in the way that make her shiver in his grip.

“No,” she shakes her head slightly.

“No?” He asks slyly, bucking his hips a few times just to tease her.

“I mean I feel like it will hurt less this way. Well, maybe not less but for the shorter period of time, I don’t know.” 

“As you say goes,” he smirks, capturing her lips for a surprisingly chaste kiss. “But don’t get used to it, sweetheart.”

Before she realizes what is going on, he slides inside her in one swift motion, making her cry out loudly, the sound echoing in the bathroom followed by more shaky breaths as she tries to calm down a little bit. He hisses as she clenches around him, so tightly that he almost comes at the spot.

“Fuck,” he laughs in surprise, making her laugh too, much to his relief, since for one moment he thought that he had seriously hurt her. “If- if you’re ready for more, tell me.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she nods, her mind a little bit dizzy, the sharp pain substituted by something more like a dull throb with a hint of that particular, unpleasant stinging sensation which despite all of these, seems possible to bear for her. “You can move.”

And so, per her request he withdraws halfway only to slam back in, this time making her gasp at the sudden spark of pleasure. It still hurts a little bit, but she might get used to it, since it seems to get better with time, at least according to what he told her before.

Indeed, it seems to get better with time.

He repeats the motion a couple of times, trying to figure out what works better for her, what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her dig her nails into his back. 

Soon he settles a rhythm, slow, deep thrusts that leave her gasping hotly over the skin of his neck, her soft lips grazing the flesh, teeth nibbling at the pulse point. He shivers as her tongue flicks over the bite, tracing the line all the way up to his lips, meeting them for a kiss. 

“More,” she moans against his lips, her hips pushing up involuntary as his pubic bone rubs against her clit. She silently wishes he will repeat that one soon.

He changes their position slightly, holding her up for a better grip, his muscles beginning to shake with effort, as he slams her back to the wall, soon rewarding her with hard, fast thrusts. She cries out, her nails marking red, angry welts down his back that burn nicely as the water cascades over them.

He is oddly close by now, maybe because of how tight, how wet she is, but either way it would be embarrassing to cum before an inexperienced, not-long-ago virgin.

She is close too, the coil deep in her stomach so tight that it burns, and again, she needs just a simple push over the edge, the push that comes sooner than expected.

“Touch yourself,” he groans, his voice lower than usual, the dark tone of it not necessary encouraging her to question him this time.

As requested, she slips her hand between the parted legs, circling the nub harshly, and the extra friction seems to be a crucial factor. She moans his name in surprise, her hips bucking a few times to ride out the orgasm as her body still shivers in the aftershocks for a couple more seconds. 

As soon as she goes limp in his arms, he pulls out, slowly, not wanting to make the sudden emptiness too unpleasant for her. She gasps as he grinds against her inner thigh, slick with blood, soon following her trace, almost dropping her in the heat of the moment.

“You know,” he starts, still a little bit breathless due to the previous activities. “We can do it again sometime if you would like.”

“I think I would like,” she smiles, letting him gently set her back on the floor, “to do it again sometime. Maybe it will help you to improve your skills, I don’t know.”

“Very funny,” he replies sternly, trying to keep his composure, but it is not long enough until he laughs too, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the pleasant lemongrass scent that he knows so well.

From now on she is not his daughter anymore, she is not Beverly, the daughter of Deborah. 

She is his lover.

Well, at least for now, since temporary things seems to work better for them.

And yet, there remains a question.

Why do people always lie at the end?

**Author's Note:**

> Created: 11/05/19  
> Completed: 12/31/19  
> Edited: 03/11/20


End file.
